


Hardly a Challenge

by cerise



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-07
Updated: 2011-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-17 17:58:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerise/pseuds/cerise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wants John to let him read over his shoulder as he blogs. John refuses, and a discussion ensues about the Internet, social media, privacy, boundaries and maybe something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hardly a Challenge

No matter how John tries to be casual about it, Sherlock can always tell when he's blogging about him.

John doesn't want him to know. He trains his body language to closely resemble what he looks like on any given day surfing the Internet, Googling this or that, e-mailing friends Sherlock hadn't yet found out about, following rabbit trails on Wikipedia. To most observers, John wouldn't look lost in conspiratorial concentration at all, but he has too many tells to fool Sherlock. It's in the minute shift of a suddenly cautious expression; it's in the slight afterthought turn of John's shoulders as Sherlock strides past him. No doubt the vestiges of an unconscious desire to shield the netbook screen from his view.

Each time he does it, Sherlock feels a flare of. Hmm, no. Resentment was too strong, perhaps also too nuanced. Something baser? Irritated. As though Sherlock would spy so cavalierly, read over his shoulder uninvited or - no, well, he would, he absolutely would do all of those things, without the slightest hesitation, but it's a moot point because it's impossible to do it. He knows, because he cranes his neck a bit to look, every time he passes. Anyway, John has set his font to "tiny," likely to obfuscate the contents even further, and he's already mostly in the way. And as much as Sherlock is loathe to concede any limitation, physical, mental or otherwise, X-ray vision was a bit beyond even him. In Sherlock's view, any further attempts to stop him from seeing his in-progress blog were nothing short of hysterical overkill on John's part.

"Why bother." Sherlock can't resist asking. Precision: he _can_ resist, and chooses not to, today. No reason, arbitrary, maybe he's bored. To his own ears, he sounds appropriately clinical, his voice taking on the disinterested tone of data-gathering, just as in any other investigation. He does not at all whinge, for example.

"Mmm?" John's typing lags only temporarily, even as he attempts to sound disinterested. Fails.

"Why bother not letting me see what you're writing." It's less a question than an admonishment, hinting at distracted disdain. Distracted because his attention is split, because today he is comparing filaments in towels - useful information for future reference, Sherlock is calmly certain about this, and so there is nothing untoward about splaying out the preliminary samples onto the exact same table on which John is typing. Surely there is ample room for both of them. Sherlock's snippets of washcloth are no more than a few centimetres apiece, and John's netbook was purchased, after all, with the idea that it should take up as little space as possible. So Sherlock cheerfully ignores the indignant glare John lobbies at him over the netbook screen. He's got filaments to start analysing. Out come the tweezers.

"Why should I let you see what I'm writing?" John is trying reverse psychology. Sherlock disapproves of this; it implies he can somehow trick him and is therefore presumptuous. "There is this wonderful invention called privacy that we are all entitled to as human beings."

Not strictly true. Prisoners, children, students, not to mention security cameras in most public places and - and if he weren't so preoccupied, Sherlock would correct him, because that's one of the most foolhardy generalisations he's ever heard. Instead, he says, as the tweezers dig into one of his remnants with the precision of a surgeon, "It's not private, though. You're blogging. I can tell." He ignores the flash of defeat across John's features just then, too; he sees that look on other people all the time and he has become completely desensitised to it. "You intend to publish it onto the Internet in public view. Approximately twenty-eight-point-seven per cent of the world has Internet access, which is just over one-point-nine billion people. Either you don't know what ‘privacy' means or you're working off a very different definition than I am." He carefully pulls out one red filament, with no small degree of quiet triumph. And it seemed to his ears that the volume of John's typing suddenly increased to a noticeable degree, though his expression remained unchanged. Blank. Almost. "And I am among the twenty-eight-point-seven per cent, since, as you know, I have Internet access on my mobile and my computer as well as intermittent access through other means, so we've come full circle: What. Is. The point?"

He's not looking at John anymore as he holds up the scraggly little string to the light, squinting as he steadies his hand - wouldn't be efficient to have it tumble to the floor and either get lost, forcing him to repeat the process, or become sullied in some way. When had they last mopped in this room? Oh, right. _Never_. The filament drops safely into his prepared plastic baggie, one of many he's brought along for the occasion, and Sherlock busies himself with the careful labelling, so much so that soon he's forgotten he's asked a question.

"Because." It's much louder than it needs to be, they both realise it, because John looks slightly abashed at Sherlock's questioning look. John clears his throat and starts again. "Because though it's true you're going to read the finished product, I can't let you see the work in progress."

"There's a difference?"

"Yes, of course, there's a difference." Sherlock thinks John's indignation is unnecessary as well as a bit over-the-top, but, he remembers, he finds most people's emotional displays unnecessary and over-the-top, regardless of their degree. He knows John well enough by now to know that by the time his voice has modulated to this higher pitch and louder decibel level, he doesn't need Sherlock to prompt him to keep talking.

"I edit, I revise things - if I let you read it as I wrote it, it would be." John inhales, grasping for the right words. "Unsettling." Hmm. Sherlock thinks he should've chosen a more precise adjective, but he stays silent, writing methodically on the baggie. Details, fabric types, location of acquisition, and information on the cloth instruction tags he's saved as reference. Helpful.

John, of course, keeps talking. This is predictable, but Sherlock doesn't find John's predictability as disappointing as he finds most other people's. "I wouldn't be able to concentrate. I wouldn't just... let the words flow out of me in organic, honest, unfiltered ways." He illustrates the flow with his hands, grandiose and sweeping gestures, and Sherlock almost can't bear to watch the maudlin display of it all. "There's a creative process. All right? I've got a process, and you'd distract me from it."

How strangely satisfying. But - "Would it matter? There's so very little artistry in your blog entries as it is; it's not as though you're writing beautiful poetry." Sherlock doesn't mean it in a pointed or cruel way. It's just true. John is a technically proficient writer and his words convey their purpose with concise, careful clarity, but his prose is largely unremarkable. He is confident any literary expert would agree with him. But Sherlock is too thoroughly engrossed in his cataloguing of filaments, permanent marker scribbling furiously on clear, flimsy plastic, so he only hears John's frustrated exhalation. Doesn't see John's wide-eyed, incredulous stare, even though he can picture it perfectly in his imagination. Sherlock has an excellent imagination.

"Well, then. If they're so bloody terrible, then you won't object if I don't let you read them until everyone else can, too. There you have it - problem solved."

"Straw man," Sherlock muses, voice blithe and light, turning over the next fragment of fabric in his palms. "I never said they were terrible. They are competently executed and largely engaging, on an elementary level. Their subject, at the very least, is always interesting." Lips twitch. Humour. Their subject, for the most part, is Sherlock Holmes.

"You - you know what - look at this, now I've lost my train of -" John waves furiously at his netbook, frowning, and for a moment, Sherlock wonders if he'll knock it off the table. Mild alarm at that - Sherlock rather likes that netbook, likes to work on it ("steal it," John insists, because he is dramatic, unnecessarily over-the-top, unfailingly so) and also because Sherlock likes to rifle through the cache to see John's Internet history. Who wouldn't? It's fun. Also, sometimes, damned hilarious.

John sighs patiently, which cheers Sherlock right up. Another tell! John is going to keep talking, Sherlock knows, and as if on cue, John blurts out: "Have you heard of the observer-expectancy effect?"

Pause, tucking his chin under, because Sherlock doesn't immediately register this reference and therefore has to scan his memory (hard drive, Sherlock likes this analogy because he likes computers - not just John's but perhaps especially John's.) When he looks up again, he decides not to answer at all. Sooner or later, John will tire of waiting for a reply and simply expound. A clever strategy Sherlock devised years ago, to keep from giving away even the slightest ignorance on any given subject. Ignorance is a gap in information, a soft and spongy underbelly. Like a porcupine's.

"It's a theory of psychological bias." John's words come out slowly, careful, like he's afraid he might offend Sherlock somehow. John is ridiculous as a general rule. Another casual observation that Sherlock registers (a fact) but doesn't disdain. "The idea is that by observing a subject, you change its behaviour. That's what would happen here, do you see? If I let you look over my shoulder, I would know that you're reading it. Your observing would change things, because I know that you have a set of biases and expectations, and I would subconsciously try to -"

"I have no expectations whatsoever as I don't care what you write in your blog." It's Sherlock's turn to sound indignant, even pausing at shredding his fabric sample for a millisecond. "And I'm perfectly capable of remaining objective. I'm afraid your paranoia about this subject is rapidly approaching pathology, John. Don't be alarmed; there is medication available that can help you manage if it eventually renders you dysfunctional -"

"No, Sherlock, listen - it's true. You would interrupt me. Constantly." John looks at him, anticipating a self-fulfilling prophecy, and Sherlock meets his gaze with the most beatific expression he can manage. Says nothing. Not even to mention that it's John who has interrupted first. Proving a point: of course he can stay quiet and not interrupt. It requires some concentration, like any measure of self-restraint, but he can - he does manage it. Sherlock decides then John is an incurable pessimist and that is what's led him to these paranoid rantings, all stemming from an obvious but serious cognitive error, and as soon as John is done talking, Sherlock resolves to point it out to him. It's for his own good. This is altruism. No, it is; it counts.

"You would - would correct me about everything. Every little thing. You'd pressure me to write this, not write that - and, oh, God, how you'd argue. No, you know you would - you would argue with me and fuss over details no one else would notice and drive me stark raving bonkers until I would probably want to smash the stupid computer over your fussy, argumentative head." It is a baseless threat, hyperbole at which Sherlock does not even blink. John would never strike him unless it was to get him out of immediate harm more serious than the blow would inflict. Also a fact.

"If I corrected an error you were making as you were writing, I should think this would improve your writing, not hinder it." In goes another filament - ivory-white this time, of a type common among hotel linens - into a separate baggie. This activity is proving most productive. "You would make fewer mistakes, simultaneously increasing your public credibility and reducing the amount of time you'd need to spend fact-checking your entries. I would make an excellent reference because I have a much better memory than you do." This, too, is a fact, indisputable, no need whatsoever for John to look quite that offended. "It would be much more efficient. You could probably write a lot more."

John does blink, though, several times. Sherlock deduces that he is thinking because John is very smart, possibly the smartest person he knows (for whom he does not feel the relentless if irrational desire to throttle.) (This is a necessary disclaimer or John would be the second smartest person Sherlock knows.) (It wouldn't do to have John come in second to Mycroft.)

"Sherlock."

"Mmm."

"You're not allowed to read my blog entries until I post them onto my actual blog."

Oh. Resentment is perhaps appropriate in small doses here.

"Are we clear?"

"Perfectly." He's agreed too readily, though, they can both see that.

"No - don't think you'll just hack into it when I'm not looking."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"I'm going to encrypt it better than the Bank of England."

"As you see fit." His tone is both mild and generous, and out of the corner he can see John turning an interesting hue of - purple? More accurate: puce.

" _Sherlock._ "

"For the record, I have no issue whatever with you reading over my shoulder when I write my blog." Deflection was a useful means of avoiding a reply. "Or what I post on Twitter."

"You have a Twitter?"

"Of course, I have a Twitter. And my Twitter is linked to my blog, and when I post on my blog, it updates my Twitter and vice versa. It's all automatic. I set it up in minutes. I considered adding Facebook, but you're forced to call everyone whom you permit to read your posts your ‘friends' which I find entirely obtrusive, so I've chosen to stick to Twitter for now. I'm quite popular; I have hundreds of followers and I've estimated that approximately seventy-three per cent of them are real people."

"Who are the other twenty-seven per cent? Literary characters?"

"No. Links to pornography. Or spam." He finishes writing on his second baggie with a great and perhaps unnecessary flourish. "Sometimes both. They're not mutually exclusive."

John blows air between his teeth, the way he does just before he tells Sherlock he is _amazing_ or sometimes _extraordinary_ and Sherlock feels just a tiny bit smug even as the pressing urge to speak rapid-fire and non-stop dissipates on the tip of his tongue. John admits, "I don't get Twitter, honestly."

"It's rather like talking to yourself, in front of millions of people." A pedestrian analogy, but serviceable. He types a message into his BlackBerry's Twitter application: _Red twill is heavier than ivory-white cotton. Note: Colour incidental._. People will reply with all sorts of nonsense. "If you ever get a Twitter account, I won't follow it - our conversations will be available for full public viewing by anyone; it isn't wise. Regardless, I would let you watch me post on it. If I didn't want you to see, not to belabour the point, but I wouldn't be posting it in public in the first place."

"I suppose you're just an open book, then, Sherlock Holmes. Transparent and forthcoming, where I am opaque and enigmatic. Yes, yes - that's me. John Watson, perpetual enigma."

Sherlock agrees with this vehemently, feels relief that John can acknowledge this frustrating failing on his part. So he points out, with an airy sniff: "If you'd just let me read over your shoulder in the first place, you'd likely be done writing by now. Do you see how much time you've wasted?"

John's fingers tap the table now, instead of the too-small keyboard. Perhaps he is mulling over the profound practicality of Sherlock's observation. That would be progress!

"I'm going to my room." John snaps the netbook shut and Sherlock notes his speech has taken on an unusual staccato. "To blog in _peace_." Sherlock thinks this must be a lie or an excuse because their drawing room is more peaceful than the average morgue (another fact - Sherlock has visited many morgues and their acoustics are a nightmare compared to the solid insulation of this space). He stores that knowledge away for later consideration, and John adds, unnecessarily: "And you can't read what I'm writing until I'm done, and that's final. I don't care how much you beg."

"Beg. I haven't begged." But Sherlock's words are met with a retreating, defiant back, and he watches John march away. Military man, Sherlock thinks, and the amusement mollifies him, even as his logic and strategy have so failed to ply John in the way he'd intended.

No matter. Sooner or later, John would fall asleep, or have to urinate, or he would grow thirsty, or perhaps get distracted by a phone call. Sherlock knows it's only a matter of time before he sees the netbook's contents, anyway. John won't approve, but curiosity about what people are going to post about you in front of twenty-eight-point-seven per cent of the world's population is perfectly reasonable and John is being perfectly _un_ reasonable. He sends John a text.

 _Internet privacy is an egregious oxymoron._

He could have posted that on Twitter, he realises in retrospect. It's polarising enough to engender heated, if highly truncated discussion amenable to that format. But he keeps it to John for now. A moment later, he gets:

 _Still no, Sherlock._

John is hardly a challenge at all, really, so it's only in spite of himself that Sherlock smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a friendshippy, subtexty thing that also explored (with humor, hopefully) the impact of social media and technology on the Sherlock/John relationship. Three thousand words later, this is what I had. :) Many thanks to [lankyguy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lankyguy) and [chaney](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaney) for the beta and read-through. The statistics about Internet usage are taken from [this site](http://www.internetworldstats.com/stats.htm), among others.


End file.
